


sounds like an inferno

by ishiyams



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Bokuto Koutarou, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Musician Tsukishima Kei
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-18 14:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishiyams/pseuds/ishiyams
Summary: The 5 times Bokuto Koutarou draws Tsukishima Kei.The first time was accident.
Relationships: Bokuto Koutarou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 19
Kudos: 80





	sounds like an inferno

**Author's Note:**

> no beta.... so sorry for any mistakes... call me out on it. :)
> 
> tell me, if my friend says effervescent is a pretentious word, and i still use it.... am i pretentious?

The first time Koutarou draws Tsukishima Kei it was, honestly, a complete accident. 

He’s leaning on the steps of the science building, waiting for Akaashi and Kuroo to finish their classes and come meet him so they can all go for lunch. As usual, he was excited and got there way too early, but he had with him a plan to kill time.

It was a rare occurrence, but for some reason he gave into the urge to bring his sketchbook, and it’s resting on the tiered concrete railing in front of him. He’s doing quick rough sketches of a scene of some crows that were gathered around a nearby bench, begging for the seeds that an elderly woman was spreading across the walking path.

Once he has perfectly shaded the woman's hand, he sets to work softening the sharp edges of graphite in black feathers. His fingertips were permanently stained with pencil whenever he sketched, and he’d had to give up wearing bright colors regularly with how much he was smearing the led all over himself. 

Luckily Kuroo was a stylish goth - even though he protested that title wholeheartedly - and the taller man had many opinions on what would look good on Koutarou’s frame. 

He almost matched the crows with his newly acquired  _ ‘sporty grunge _ ’ attire - as his more opinionated roommate has so lovingly dubbed it. Akaashi has told him he just looks the part of a starving artist, whatever that meant.

_ Oh- _ he had gotten distracted and the woman was leaving, the crows scattering as she stands. 

_ Damn _ .

As he surveys the immediate area for something new to draw, his mind starts to wander once more. He can hear some soft string section of classical music playing from somewhere not too far off; the fine arts building is right beside the sciences. It must be some music practice he’s hearing. How relaxing! 

Koutarou wouldn’t really describe himself as a relaxed sort of person. He’s constantly moving forward, shifting and writhing and vibrating with energy. He feels like his brain’s controls are always set to extreme - 120% of his power needed  _ at all times _ !

Even now as he’s focusing on the smooth sounds drifting past him on the wind his foot is turning to tap out the tempo on the concrete by his foot, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he strains his hearing to try and hear the low bass of the drums. His fingers are gripping his pencil that is sliding across his sketchbook, the lines coming to life as he drags it down the pristine white page-

_ Ah _ \- he had started drawing another subject…

He blinks down at his sketchbook and wonders just how a rough sketch of someone under a tree has mysteriously appeared on his page.

He raises his head back up, sweeping the open expanse of the courtyard until his gaze comes to rest on the lone tree between him and the decaying fine arts building. 

There, with the leaves shadows perfectly positioned across his resting face, is the most beautiful man Koutarou has ever laid eyes on. The sun filtering through the trees branches is giving the other an ethereal golden glow, his smooth skin only interrupted by the glasses that are sliding lower on his sharply angled and slim nose. 

His eyes are closed, eyelashes casting even more fluttering shadows over lightly freckled and fair skinned cheeks. His long legs are tightly crossed in front of him, muscled but lean arms crossed over a slim chest. He has sleek instrument case resting beside him on the grass, an even sleeker messenger bag on his other side. His hands are tucked away under his armpits, but Koutarou wonders if he has long and slim musician’s fingers, and if his hair is as soft as it looks.

He’s also wearing all black that contrasts nicely with his pale skin. Thats cute, him and Koutarou match-

_ Ah _ \- he had kept on drawing. 

He looks down once again to much more than rough sketches and realizes he's been trying to replicate the exact curve of the man’s bottom lip. 

_ Shit  _ \- is he being super creepy right now? He’s being so creepy- he should stop-  _ what the fuck _ ….

….

_ It’s not like anyone will know… right? _

Koutarou spends the last half hour of Akaashi and Kuroo’s classes finding a way to perfectly shade the light filtering through the green leaves onto a pale face.

* * *

The second time Koutarou draws Tsukishima Kei is a bit less accidental, but still not completely on purpose.

Koutarou has just ducked into a cafe near campus, cheeks red and toes frozen. He carries his bag in his arms like precious cargo, hoping the snow hasn’t dampened it enough to damage his sketchbook during his mad speed walk to the train station. 

Halfway through his freezing commute, Akaashi had texted him to tell him the train wasn’t running and that if he could last until the end of Kuroo’s shift, they would come and pick him up with their shared car on their way home.

Even though sometimes they had loud rowdy sex when he was trying to study, he loved his roommates very much. 

He makes his way to the counter, finally letting his bag fall from his death grip and back to his hip as he unwinds his scarf from around his entire face. His watering, cold-stung eyes are turned toward the menu above the counter itself, so he almost has a heart attack when a low and bored sounding voice interrupts his thoughts. 

“Welcome to Karasuno Cafe, what can I get you?”

He makes eye contact with the cashier and-  _ and almost dies _ .

Across from him are unfamiliar eyes on a familiar face, one that he had perfected the angles of as they were bathed in the light from the summer sky.

_ Holy shit _ -

Koutarou realizes he's just frozen like a statue in front of the blond, eyes wide and scarf still looping over his shoulders. They’ve held eye contact this whole time, and the others expression hasn’t changed at all. Though, Koutarou notes, it does seem a bit more tense than the relaxed drowsiness he had observed under the tree all those months ago. 

“Sir?”

Koutarou shakes himself out of whatever stupor he was in and steps fully up to the counter. A quick glance around tells him there’s no one in line behind him, and he huffs a quick and relieved breath.

He’s still a bit starstruck and hanging off every word the sleeping sun man says- or not so sleeping now, he guesses- as they go through the transaction. 

Without conscious effort on his part, Koutarou has somehow ended up sitting at a table along the wall, a hot chocolate releasing steam into the air in front of him. He blinks down at it and wonders if he managed to do that like a normal person and not a complete  _ fool _ . He can’t seem to remember.

He has also somehow ended up with a perfect view of the counter- and of the blond that finishes cleaning the milk steamer before turning back to lean once again over a book Koutarou has somehow missed on the counter. Koutarou’s eyes are drawn to the man’s hunched shoulders and he wagers there's more muscle there than is visible. 

He checks the time and sees he still has a few hours before Kuroo is off work, so he guesses he's stuck here in this cozy and quiet cafe with a man he’s been feeling guilty over drawing for months.

_ I could just go talk to him _ .

He can just go up and come clean and remedy the guilt that has been sitting low in his gut. The cafe is quiet, there's only one or two other customers here- oh, but the other looks so involved in his book. Koutarou thinks he’s really into it, the lines of tension are once again absent from the slim face and eyes are alight with concentration. He can’t go up and bother him now, that would be so  _ rude _ ! 

Interrupting the guy’s reading just to tell him what a creep he was, is suddenly not high up on his to-do list.

Koutarou instead wonders if the music playing is the other’s choice, a soft indie beat that adds to the cafes cozy and relaxed atmosphere. His leg is moving in slow rotations under the table, swaying in tandem with the smooth guitar as it rocks him into an almost trance. 

He finds his eyes drawn once again back to the blond, almost as if they were magnetized there. The other is wearing a long sleeved black shirt and has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearms on display. 

Koutarou’s gaze traces over the muscles hiding under pale skin, caresses the soft blue veins that lay in contrast to the majority of pink undertones. He drinks in the turn of the other’s wrist as he reaches to turn the page of his book, imagines running his tongue over the little protruding bone-

_ Oh fuck _ \- he drew him again.

Koutarou looks down at his own charcoal covered hands, wondering  _ what the fuck _ he was thinking and then remembering that he wasn’t thinking much at all. 

Across the page were soft effervescent sketches of forearms over books, of glasses over soft eyes, and of a slim nose over frowning lips. In the middle is a full sketch of the barista leaning over the counter reading, and Koutarou takes a moment to miss his long legs. He’s certain they would be an amazing inclusion for the charcoal drawing. 

He’s interrupted from his musings by the door blowing open, breaking the calm atmosphere and letting a cold gust of air into the warm cafe.

“Sorry Tsukki! The train stopped running when I was a station away!” 

A new addition to the cafe is making his way behind the counter and into the backroom, chattering all the while about how sorry and frozen he was. However, Koutarou wasn’t watching him.

Koutarou was fixated on ‘Tsukki’, who was wearing a distracted and fond upturn of lips.

Koutarou didn’t know if he wanted to draw it, or kiss it away….

And where the hell had  _ that  _ thought come from? He didn’t even know the man!

The other barista eventually returned from the back room while Koutarou was experiencing his small gay panic, and ‘Tsukki’ made his way out from behind the counter to a table by the window. He stretched out his long legs and settled in with his book, the atmosphere of the cafe smoothing back over its interruption like a warm blanket. 

He could see the brown haired barista puttering around behind the counter out of the corner of his eye, but Koutarou’s attention was still magnetized to the blond by the window and the movement of pages. He was a fast reader, way faster than Koutarou- maybe even as fast as Kuroo.

He was leaning forward now, over his own table and long empty mug, tracking the flashes of golden brown eyes as they flew over words. He looked down and-

_ Fuck! _ \- his hand was moving once again, this time to render soft eyes behind sharp glasses. 

God he’s so creepy! He’s obsessed! What’s wrong with him?!

He lets himself rake his charcoal covered hands aggressively through his hair and have exactly 30 seconds of silent freakout before throwing back his shoulders, conviction shimmering bright under his skin and making him bold. 

He stands, crosses the cafe, and leans over a blond who is looking up at him with wide startled eyes and tense uncovered forearms. Koutarou notes the tight grip the other has on his book before trying to soften his, no doubt severe, expression of determination. 

“Hey, I need to tell you something.”

* * *

The third time Koutarou draws Tsukishima, the subject himself isn't even in the vicinity and the drawing isn’t even a drawing- it’s a painting.

Koutarou is at home alone except for the circle of fur pressed into his hip, Kuroo and Akaashi out somewhere. He has watercolors spread out in front of him on the coffee table and is stuck on an assignment because he can’t stop thinking of the night before.

Tsukishima Kei, Tsukki for short, was truly living up to the first impression Koutarou had of him back in the summer. He’s extraordinary, and Koutarou wants to know  _ everything _ about him.

After the cafe incident- a whole season ago now- Tsukishima had given him the cold shoulder. He ignored every attempt to befriend him- every attempt to get close to him or talk to him- for two whole months! 

Koutarou was nothing if not tenacious however, and he wore down Tsukishima’s walls with what he calls his natural charisma and charm, popping up around the blond on campus and at work and even in the cafeteria that one time. Tsukishima will describe it as ‘annoying him until he couldn’t take it anymore’, but Koutarou knows he's  _ wrong _ . He won Tsukishima over, plain and simple, and now they even regularly hang out. 

Last night was what Koutarou has dubbed their first unofficial date. Tsukishima had finally given in to the pressure Koutarou was putting on him every time they hung out to let him listen to the other play his violin. Not only had he given in, but Tsukishima had  _ delivered _ !

There was a freshman showcase every year at their university, and for the music department that meant a concert. Tsukishima had been chosen for a solo, his only accompaniment a small blond girl on a piano.

Tsukishima had found him in the library studying for an exam, and had dropped a single ticket onto his open book as he sat down.

“What's this?” he’d asked, examining the ticket like it was made of glass and picking it up between careful fingers. 

“You’re the one that's been bothering me about the violin,” Tsukishima had huffed out, expression unchanging as he too spread his school books over the table. 

Koutarou zeroed in on the tension in the corners of his eyes, the way his finger trembled just ever so slightly as he flipped open a notebook and returned the others nerves with a bright grin that slowly crept across his face.

“For real Tsukki? I finally get to hear you! This is the best day ever!” It was only Tsukishima’s pointed glare that kept him from leaping up onto his chair and fist pumping like he wanted to. 

He settled for a calming breath, and then reaching across the table and sliding their pinkies together over Tsukishima’s notes, letting out a soft and heartfelt ‘thank you’. He felt his smile grow impossibly larger at the pink that dusted the blond’s cheeks after that.

So there he was, sitting in the middle of a huge auditorium, eyes unblinking and glued to the tall form of Tsukishima Kei as he coaxed smooth, pristine and  _ powerful _ notes from the small instrument resting on his shoulder. 

Koutarou never even considered that classical music could have such an influence on him until this moment.

Tsukishima was  _ amazing _ , even he could tell that with his untrained, more rock-inclined ear. The blond was up there, suit jacket open, swaying in rhythm with the notes he himself was creating and  _ pressing _ down into the audience.

Tsukishima has always been intense, with his expressionless face and almost too-expressive eyes, but right now he was  _ powerful _ as well. His eyes were closed but his silhouette framed by too bright stage lights was fierce, his expression not tense, but not relaxed- concentrated on his movement. 

The sound of his violin was like an inferno, spreading across the audience like a tidal wave of heat and enveloping them with the sharp burn that comes from hours upon hours of practice.

Koutarou felt wholly overwhelmed and surrounded, like this intense and perfect sound was a blanket that was slowly suffocating him- though he wasn’t complaining, he would gladly drown in this sound as long as Tsukishima was the one drowning him. 

He was completely enraptured by the blond on stage, his chest filling with such a foreign feeling of  _ pride  _ and  _ fulfillment  _ that wasn’t his own and didn’t stem from any of his own actions. It filled him with emotions, almost choking him up to the point he could feel the burn of hot tears in his eyes. 

He’s sure he will never forget this feeling, with how new it is and how brightly it burns. 

Now, he sits on his living room floor, one hand on the warm back of Kuroo’s cat, and one hand absentmindedly twirling his paint brush around his finger tips as he remembers it. 

The feeling that's been in his chest ever since he saw Tsukishima all those months ago, dozing under the summer trees. It was like an ember then, slotting into place inside of him, not spreading, but not going away. Now, after months of  _ knowing  _ the other man, its picking up momentum.

He feels the swell of it clamping down around his heart, filling up his stomach like no food ever has. He feels it spread down through his legs until he has to shake out his ankles until it jumps to his shoulders. He flexes his biceps, trying to push the feeling out through his pores, but it stays rooted under his skin, claw-like and stuck. 

He brings both his hands up to reach for the ceiling, splaying his fingers and watching them on the ends of his trembling wrists. He visualizes the feeling pouring past his elbows and onto his palms, curling up his fingers like vines until finally coming to rest in his fingertips.

_ Fuck it _ \- he decides to finish his project later.

He flings himself toward the coffee table with so much gusto, it sends the cat bolting into the bedroom, but he can’t bring himself to feel bad in the moment. He shoves the canvas he’s been staring at for over an hour onto the floor and yanks open his sketchbook. He needs an outlet, he  _ needs  _ the feeling to spill out and he can feel his entire focus zeroing in on the pristine white page he is about to mark with his emotions. 

It feels like only a few minutes later- or maybe even years- before the last colors are spilling from his last brush stroke and he sits back, inhaling a breath it feels like he was getting desperate for. He blinks down at the once white thick art paper and feels all his gusto leave him in a rush. He slumps back against the couch and-

Almost springs right the fuck back up because the back of his head hits a pair of knees. He limit’s his reaction to a startled squeak however, because  _ who else  _ was going to have their knees on his couch.

“Welcome back to the land of the living my fine feathered friend,” Kuroo is grinning down at him lazily as he tilts his head back to rest on bony knees. He shuffles over so he’s pillowed more on lap area and grins back at him.

“Wha’ time is it?” he feels so tired all of a sudden, slurring his words as he blinks back at one of his best friends. A friend who very graciously does not mention this and instead reaches to comb through his hair.  _ Fuck yeah _ .

“Way past your bedtime mister, me and Keiji have been home for a while. He’s in bed already,” Kuroo has laughter in his eyes as Koutarou curls into his stomach, pressing his tired face against the soft fabric of and old t-shirt.

“Wow…” he’s interrupted by his own yawn, “I forgot to eat dinner. I think I started this around two.”

He feels his friend stiffen in surprise and lean over him to carefully lift the worn sketchbook from the table.

“Bo… this is amazing,” Kuroo gasps out, seemingly breathless as he looks over the piece, “Are you going to show him? I’m sure he would forgive you for being a creep if he knew you saw him like this.”

Koutarou tries to answer, he really does, but sleep has already pulled him under as he nuzzles further into Kuroo’s warmth.

The next morning finds him waking up in his own bed, and he sends out a silent prayer for Kuroo and his gangly muscles. As always, he bounds out of his room with barely contained enthusiasm, full of energy even as he rises. 

He goes through his morning routine of a shower, a healthy breakfast, and is about to run out the door when he glances at his text messages and  _ remembers _ .

Making his way over to the coffee table is nerve wracking, he doesn’t know what he will find but he knows he’s going to have a huge impact on him with the all encompassing emotion that made him up yesterday. He peeks over the couch, like keeping that between him and the painting he knows his roommates wouldn’t have moved will make it less intimidating. 

All his breath leaves him in a startled and audible  _ woosh _ .

He’s chosen a moment where Tsukishima looks like he’s balancing very precariously on the edge of the stage. He remembers it from the concert, Tsukishima was leaning so far backward at a soft part in the piece, Koutarou was scared for him, but then he had snapped up with a loud and clear note that marked the beginning of an intense section. Koutarou had  _ loved _ it, and somehow he’d captured that moment with his brush and some watercolor paints.

He’d used muted tones for Tsukishima himself, surrounding him with warm blacks and browns, the violin sleek and crisp in his grasp. For the background he’d chosen fiery reds, yellows and oranges, surely trying to convey the effect the performance had on him. 

The watercolor lent itself to a feeling of restrained effervescence, of controlled chaos around the eye of the storm, which he thought fit Tsukishima perfectly. 

Tsukishima himself had a cold exterior, never letting people see past his facade, but on the inside he  _ burned _ \- hot and vast and passionate. Koutarou has had glimpses of it over these past months, and he’s finally let himself express the feelings he doesn’t think he will ever have words for. 

He’s feeling emotional all over again. He presses his hand over his mouth, stares at the ceiling and blinks back tears until he knows he’ll be late if he doesn’t leave  _ now _ .

With just one more thought to his phone- and the heavy text message that's on it- as he shoves it into his pocket, he's out the door and closing it tight on the feelings that want to be ignited all over again in his chest. Instead, he pastes a joyful smile on his lips and makes his way down the stairs with a bounce in his step.

**Akaashi Keiji** (6:47 AM):

_ Does he know yet? _

* * *

The fourth time Koutarou draws Tsukishima the world is quiet, no sounds- intense or otherwise- to ring in his ears.

Koutarou hasn’t slept yet, instead opting to lay on his back and watch the changing sky reflected on the dorm rooms ceiling hes sleeping under. The grey of dawn has just begun to wash over the small room, and he finally shifts off his back to roll and face his bed-mate. 

His eyes trace over a nose that’s too pronounced and across angles and shadows he doesn’t know by heart, across piercings that aren’t supposed to be there and a mouth that is wide open instead of tightly sealed. 

He thinks back to last night and reminds himself that even with liquid courage flowing through him, the other man's face was too expressive where his eyes were not. Thinks about slim hands with slim fingers wrapped around his wrists but how they aren’t  _ musicians _ fingers. Thinks about the torso that was towering above him last night and how it wasn’t slim, delicate and pale, and instead was thick, scarred and tan.

The man beside him at the moment wasn’t unattractive by any means, but he wasn’t  _ right _ .

The thing that threw him off the most, though, was the voice. 

Instead of smooth, quiet tenor that soothes his edges and calms his very core, the man's voice was rough and raspy. While very sexy, it curled into his ears and rubbed them raw over the course of the night, leaving him feeling emotional and oversensitive as he lay there staring at the ceiling- another thing that was wrong. He’d never been to Tsukishima’s dorm, but he was sure it didn’t look like this. 

He could feel the vibrations of pent up energy starting under his skin, and he let it consume him until it got all the way to his stomach, and then he springs up.

_ Shit-  _ he looks down to his bed-mate and sits in tense silence until he’s sure the other is nowhere near a state of wakefulness, and then eases himself out of the bed. 

Once his feet are firmly on the floor, he becomes a quiet hurricane as he speeds around the unfamiliar room gathering his clothes. He has them all except his underwear, so he guesses it’s a freeballing day- his overworked and sensitive skin definitely doesn't thank him for that.

He’s almost out the door when he hears the rustling of sheets and freezes. Luckily, his whole being is contrived around powering through awkward situations and dealing with a multitude of personalities. 

He turns around with a huge grin and hops back over to the bed just as his bed-mate sits up and rubs his eyes.

“You’re leaving?” he doesn’t sound particularly sad about this but he still drapes himself around Koutarou’s shoulders when he sits on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, I have an early class, and I want to run home and change,” Koutarou hopes his lying as gotten better over the years as he sits in the loose circle of this man’s arms. The man who is currently nosing into the sensitive skin under Koutarou’s ear, making him shiver.

“Bullshit,” the brassy blond emphasizes this with a harsh nip, making Koutarou squeak and try to pull away. The man lets him just enough to see face to face and then locks his arms to keep them wound together still, “You wanted something from last night, but it wasn’t me,” Koutarou starts to protest, but is shushed with a light peck to his nose, “No I get it, it’s fine. You  _ have  _ to tell me now though, let good ol Terushima-sama know of your hearts desire.” 

And Koutarou thought  _ he  _ was rowdy and wild and ready to handle this situation, his bedmate for the night is much better equipped. 

“I did have fun with you Yuuji and I don't regret it,” Koutarou uses his  _ Severe Eyebrows! _ ™ to get his point across, and it seems to work because Yuuji softens as he leans further into him, “I’m just… madly in love with one of my best friends and panicking a bit over it…” 

Koutarou buries his face into Yuuji’s kiss-marked neck, letting out a low whine as the other whistles low and impressed at him. 

“Why is that bad?” Yuuji asks softly, petting his hair and wrapping himself more firmly around Koutarou’s thick waist.

“Because he's amazing! He’s so cool and passionate and wonderful! What if he doesn’t like men! Or if he hates how high strung I am! What if he’s a strict bottom!” Koutarou is working himself up, he can feel it- the buzzing under his skin- so he takes a few deep breaths, letting his lungs fill with the musky scent of Yuuji’s skin.

(The wrong scent.)

“He’s one of your best friends right? So obviously he likes you at least a little bit, and he knows how over the top you are, if he’s been in your presence for more than 15 minutes at a time,” he pauses to kiss Koutarou’s scowl away and leave him blushing, “And who wouldn’t like you, you’re adorable. Anyone would be lucky to have you!”

Koutarou lets out a forlorn sigh, leaning his weight into Yuuji’s torso and rubbing his whole face across the others shoulder. The things Yuuji is saying are all things he has already heard from Kuroo and Akaashi, but the doubt is still there, gripping him tight. 

He can still feel the panic that rises up every time he thinks of Tsukishima leaving his life, presence burning away with nothing but ashes to show for it. He can already see it in the corners of his eyes as the color drains from his sight, and he hates to think that he could make that an everyday reality with his own hands. 

He wonders if he’s already doing it by being here with Yuuji. 

They stay like that until the sun is good and up, bathing the room with soft spring light, Yuuji supporting him and Koutarou being supported as he voices his fears once again. 

He might trust Yuuji with the matter slightly more than Akaashi or Kuroo, because he is so far removed from Tsukishima. He’s an outsider looking in, and he has a way of phrasing his rebuttals to Koutarou’s arguments that just screams ‘ _ the logical truth! _ ’ and by the time Koutarou actually has to leave, he is feeling a lot better about the situation.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Don’t stay here with some random man you picked up at the campus bar, get the fuck out of there and get your man!” 

“Yeah! I will! I’m gonna sweep him off his feet!” 

Yuuji yells encouragement at him all the short walk to his dorm room door, and they get dirtier and dirtier until he’s just screaming about how hot Koutarou is until Koutarou is a blushing mess. 

With a final laugh and a quick ‘ _ shut up! _ ’, Koutarou is pushing out of the dorm room and-

Straight into Tsukishima, who is coming out from a dorm across the hall. 

They lock eyes and he feels his stomach drop.

_ Fuck _ .

* * * 

He ends up back in his own room, silent and staring at the wall and wondering how everything went so wrong so quickly. 

Kuroo and Akaashi have given up knocking on his bedroom door, and he has given up on everything else. Tsukishima is wholeheartedly avoiding him, and it feels like there's an empty spot under his rib cage, and that empty spot has become a gigantic black hole that's sucking up everything inside of him. He’s empty and doesn’t know what to do, he’s such a  _ fucking idiot _ \- why did he do that-  _ what the fuck _ -

Only an entire year spent with each other, and they have come full circle, going right back to where their relationship started.

The buzzing starts in his fingertips as his downward spiral circles back once again to that morning. 

He imagines it was Tsukishima laying beside him, the  _ right  _ blond with the  _ right  _ face and the  _ right  _ everything. He imagines it was his own room with his own dark bed sheets providing a stark contrast to pale skin on slim shoulders. He wonders if Tsukishima has as sensitive a neck as he does, and thinks of how the expanse of the musicians surprisingly broad back would feel under his fingertips. 

He imagines everything there is to imagine about that morning and how it would be  _ right-  _ and he realizes he already  _ knows  _ how Tsukishima looks in rest, and how to draw it, he doesn’t need to imagine that part.

He feels his imagination and his knowledge swell, spiraling down into his fingertips once again and he  _ needs  _ to draw it.  _ Now _ .

He rolls off his bed and slams himself into the chair at his desk, flicking on his lamp and taking out his sketchbook in the same aggressive motion. He doesn’t have the temperament for watercolors at the moment, nor the ability to see the softness in charcoal and he thinks he would continuously break his pencils if he tried using them.

But ink. 

An ink pen would take the shape of his angry lines and translate them perfectly to the pristine white page. It would cover it permanently, no take backs and no redos. With his rowdy nature, he can rarely commit to the hurdle that is the ink pen, but right now it’s perfect.

He’s already fucked everything up, so what's a little more permanent disarray.

He once again spends hours hunched over his desk, perfecting angles he already knows by heart in a different medium, though this portrait is coming entirely from his imagination. 

When he finishes his entire body feels overextended and sore, tension having soaked its way deep into his core as his pen brought a chaotic rendition of a perfect man alive on the page.

Koutarou stares at it until he almost swears he can see Tsukishima’s chest lifting in even breaths.

Then he stands. 

He needs to go out for a run.

* * *

The fifth time Koutarou draws Kei is seconds before they become fiances. 

It’s a rare quiet evening alone on their tiny shared living room couch. Koutarou is silent for once, knees up with his sketchbook resting on them and his feet tucked under Kei’s thigh. The only sound is the scratch of Koutarou’s pencil as he absentmindedly jots down little sketches of parts of Kei and Kei occasionally turning the pages of his book.

He sketches his eyebrows in one corner of the page, followed by the tight angle of his collarbone on another, and then the tips of his delicate, yet powerful, fingers where they rest on his book. 

After he’s finished drawing Kei’s fingers, of course he has to draw his wrist and that little protruding bone that he knows the taste of now. He moves up Kei’s body, drawing even more parts of him, like his smiling mouth, and those eyes that are laughing-

_ Oh-  _ they’re laughing at him, because they’re turned towards him.

Koutarou pauses, resting the pencil on his thigh. He tilts his head to the side, making a small questioning noise as he smiles at his love of four years. 

“I said, you’ve never let me see your art before,” Kei is wholeheartedly amused, his eyes lit up and mouth fully quirked. Koutarou loves it, he loves him.

So he tells him.

“I love you.”   


Kei is even more amused now, and he pokes Koutarou’s knee with his book as he says “I love you too.”

“Do you want to see my sketchbook?” Koutarou asks, already closing the book and shuffling over to replace Kei’s book with his own. 

Kei treats it like something delicate in his lap, caressing the cover carefully before flipping the first page open. The first few pages are filled with mostly animals, cats and crows and some owls, and a few portraits of Akaashi and Kuroo, Konoha and Washio, one of his mom on a rare visit home. Kei flips through these with interest, carefully examining each piece before moving on.

He pauses when he flips the page over and his own essence is suddenly there on the page, dozing under a tree. The graphite makes the scene soft and surreal, and as he looks over Kei’s shoulder he can picture the way the shadows played across the blond’s nose. He remembers the scent of summer in the air, the hot sun beating down on his hunched back. Remembers the flapping of wings and the soft classical music being carried over to him on the breeze.

He remembers thinking, all those years ago, about the softness of Kei’s hair, so he reaches out in the moment and cards his fingers through it, cupping the others neck when he’s done.

Kei hasn’t said anything, is still staring in silence.

“Kei?” he prompts quietly, watching the honey brown eyes refocus as the blond blinks at him. 

“It’s… this is the picture? The one you told me about in the cafe?” Kei seems a bit breathless, face moving towards inscrutable as he tries to mask his reaction. 

Koutarou, used to this emotional response by now, just nods and asks him, “You remember that?”

“You didn’t even know me,” he says it softly, voice astonished- a statement.

“I didn’t have to.”

Kei’s response is to shake his head, but Koutarou is unsure of what it is that he’s denying, if he’s denying anything. He reaches out and lightly continues turning the pages, the intense concentration he had through the first pages settled down into quiet observation. He was definitely still interested, but Koutarou knew he was thinking something through. 

“And this was in the cafe,” Kei doesn’t ask it, because of course it was. Koutarou nods anyway, playing with the slightly curling hairs at the back of Kei’s neck, “Before or after you came over and admitted you were a creep?”

“Before. It was like you were a magnet, I couldn’t take my eyes off of your forearms,” He remembers the scent of coffee, and the warmth of the atmosphere, “I wanted to run my fingers all over them.”

“Is that why you did that on our first date,” Kei is amused again, chuckling softly as he leans into Koutarou’s side.

Koutarou laughs along with him, and wonders if he's emotionally prepared enough for the next picture he knows Kei will see of himself. He gives himself a quick mental inventory, remembering all the good things about today. It was a good day, and Kei’s here and laughing. 

Kei takes his time getting there, flipping through more drawings and complimenting him on a few as he goes. Koutarou is tense, leg bouncing and fingers tapping. Once he knows Kei is two pages away he can’t take it anymore, his nerves get the best of him and he throws himself off the couch.

“Keep going! Do you want tea? I really want tea!” Koutarou speed-walks his way right into the kitchen without looking back, and as soon as Kei can’t see him he begins anxiously biting his lip. He hears a distracted ‘sure’ from the couch as he begins pulling out everything he needs for tea and straining his hearing to hear any small sound he can from the living room. 

He’s never been disappointed by the blond, and even this time, when he kind of wants to be, he is not. 

He hears the last page flip, and then a moment of silence before Kei is dragging in a slow gasp of breath. Koutarou’s hands start shaking, almost enough to make the boiling hot tea kettle drop from them. Luckily years of sports saves him and their kitchen from the spill, but he is no less tense as he finishes making tea just as Kei likes it.

When he comes back, Kei has one hand hovering over the sketchbook in his lap, like he wants to touch- like he doesn’t think it’s real. His other hand is covering his mouth, and Koutarou can see the sheen of tears there that Kei is desperately holding back.

He pads softly into the room, placing both of their steaming mugs on the table before sliding his own arm around Kei’s back and settling it on his waist. 

“T-This-” Kei cuts himself off with a half-cough half-sob and takes a few sniffling breaths before he calms down and tries again, “This is how it felt? This is how you saw me that night?” 

Koutarou chuckles, because even after three years of being together, and four years of being in love with him, Kei is still so silly sometimes.

“This is how I  _ see _ you… Every day”

Kei whips his head towards him so fast Koutarou is worried for a moment about his neck. He gives the blond his most genuine grin, thinking wholeheartedly about how much he truly loves him, and hoping Kei can see even a fraction of it. 

The blond finally wins the fight against his own tears after an expanse of time of staring at each other, and he scoffs as he looks back down at the piece. He pauses here, eyes taking in Koutarou’s painting and seemingly gathering himself after the emotional onslaught. He doesn’t comment any further, and seems to prepare himself to turn the page over before conviction steels his nerves and he does it quickly and efficiently. 

Koutarou has been so happy these last few years, he’s almost forgotten about his affair with the ink pen that lays waiting in between his pages, so he’s the one who sucks in a breath when Kei flips the page and there he is in angry splashes of black. 

Kei’s eyes are drawn to him with the intake of air, and he can feel them scrutinizing him as long musician fingers tap out an offbeat rhythm on the page. He turns calculating eyes back to the piece before his eyes light up in recognition, finally remembering that Koutarou  _ hates _ working with ink.

“What is this?” Of course Kei would ask, he’s being so fucking weird about it.  _ Shit _ .

“It’s- uh- I-It was that day… When I came out of Terushima’s room... “ He explains guiltily, ducking his head and pressing his free fist into the outside of his thigh as he eyes the ink in Kei’s lap with trepidation. 

Kei again doesn’t comment, just blinking at the page for another few seconds before turning it over, making Koutarou release a relieved exhale as his less than stellar reaction is covered up once again. The rest of the sketchbook is mostly landscapes, and a few small sketches of parts of Kei’s body and the apartment around them, but he hasn’t had time for serious art lately with his final years of schooling and a serious relationship keeping him busy. 

They finish looking at the book of art without much fanfare, and then once again settle in to relaxed silence as the day wears on. Kei goes back to his book, but Koutarou notices that his rhythm has been disturbed as he takes twice as long than he normally does to turn the page. Koutarou observes him as he sits there deep in thought, and his own hands start to move across his own pages. 

He flips to a new one and starts with Kei’s frown of concentration, mapping out the curves he knows by heart with his pencil. He then moves onto the perfect nose, and up to his furrowed brow and the tension in his temples. He continues like this until the sun is setting, and Kei has finally been shaken out of his musings by the shower calling his name. 

Koutarou doesn’t notice the other making his way back into the living room on soft footsteps, nor does he notice the warm presence at his shoulder as he focuses on blending out the shading on graphite Kei’s fingers. 

He doesn’t register the shocked inhale or the other man slowly making way back to his place on their small couch, and he definitely doesn’t feel Kei’s intense gaze on him as he finishes the drawing. He startles when he looks up into those honey brown eyes he loves so much, looking around like an owl and taking in the lack of sunlight with a slight feeling of awe.

“How long was I drawing?” he asks, and he thinks the twinge in his hunched spine as he straightens up might be answer enough. He reaches to place the sketchbook on the couch cushion between them, and then arches back in a huge stretch, accompanied by a huge yawn.

“Well, I’ve showered already… and made supper.”

Koutarou shakes out his arms when he’s done yawning, and glances at Kei to find the other mirroring his earlier position of hovering over the sketchbook with a hand pressed to his mouth. This time, Kei’s eyes are considering the portrait, and Koutarou knows he’s still turning something over in his mind. He settles in against the armrest to wait, watching Kei with a lazy gaze as the other figures himself out.

The blond eventually turns to face him and hands the sketchbook back, moving slowly as if still trapped in his own thoughts. They lock eyes and Koutarou smiles as he closes the book and tosses it gently onto the coffee table. 

He’s wondering if he has time for a shower before the food gets cold, and if Kei-

“Marry me.”

-would want to go to that exhibition on owls he saw advertised as he was on his way home the other day. He should ask him.

“Okay,” he says absentmindedly, thinking about owls and how cute Kei would look in one of the t-shirts that were in the advertisement. He starts pushing himself to stand-

Only to fall right back down into the cushions.

He looks back at Kei, eyes wide.

“What?”

Kei is watching him and he knows him well enough to once again find nervous tension beneath soft amusement at his expense. 

“I want you to marry me,” the conviction behind his words as he says this astounds Koutarou. Outside of their bedroom, Kei has never been one to demand anything, usually either just getting what he wanted without voicing it or letting it slide away from him without a second thought. 

But here, waiting for him in their shared space, is that low-burning passion that drew Koutarou in- and kept him coming back.

It lights up Kei’s eyes, and Koutarou is once again distracted by it. He thinks about what colors he would use to paint this moment with, what undertones he can put into stoic brown that will convey the tumultuous emotions underneath. 

_ None _ , he realizes. No matter how hard Koutarou tries he knows he will never be able to accurately capture his view of this wonderful, passionate and deliciously snarky man in front of him and translate it onto paper. 

It makes him feel alive like nothing ever has. 

So, he realizes that he would just have to continue on giving it his best shot, and how else was he supposed to go about it than living this exact feeling  _ everyday _ .

So with tears beginning to build up in his eyes, and before the lump in his throat makes it impossible to say, he agrees. 

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> and the 6th+ times his name WASNT EVEN TSUKISHIMA!! :)!!!!
> 
> some notes:   
> -kei moved in with them, so all four of my boys are in the same apartment... 3rd gym gay panic sequel? im in love with my married friends!!!! oh no!!!!  
> -koutarou isn't a trained artist, he's in school for sports medicine  
> -kei gets a tattoo of one of the crows kou drew on the first day  
> -they are married in the summer, exactly 6 years after the first drawing  
> -please ask someone before using them as an artistic model, dont be like kou
> 
> i'd die for bokuto koutarou


End file.
